


got to have the sickness

by aisu10



Category: Metallica Through the Never (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Gen, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Sickfic, Vampires, Vomiting, will i make a blood drinking fic for every dane yes i will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5579456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aisu10/pseuds/aisu10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>trip gets bitten by a stranger one night and suffers some very alarming consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	got to have the sickness

she's gorgeous. dark hair, eyes bluer than his. best jawline he's ever seen on a girl. when he gets her back to his van it's her who pushes him up against the wall, her who trails kisses down the side of his slender throat. 

her who  _ bites him. _

it  _ hurts _ and he utters the first sound he's made since meeting her -- a yelp of shock as pain shoots down his spine and he feels blood trickling toward the collar of his shirt. fortunately, the noise seems to dissuade her and she scrambles off of him and out of the van in seconds -- but not before  _ licking _ the blood off his throat in one long clean swipe. covering the wound with his hand, he crawls for the doors and looks outside for any sign of her, but she's  _ gone. _

he checks the bite in his rear-view mirror. it's not big enough to require stitches, not deep enough to warrant a trip to the ER. but it fucking  _ stings _ , and he doesn't want it to get infected, so he cleans it and conceals it with a bandage from his first-aid kit and goes to sleep.

luckily this is one of those two-night concert deals, so no one gives a shit when he sleeps all day in the back of his van, plagued by nightmares he can't awaken from. when he finally breaks free of them in a cold sweat in the evening, he gets up to go find some food before he has to help set up for the show.

he's fucking  _ hungry _ , he notices with surprise; he's done nothing but sleep all day, why the hell would he be so hungry? his stomach feels hollow and it's growling louder than he talks, most days. he tries to use his skateboard to get to the dunkin faster but his legs are shaking too much to balance on it, so he ends up walking. he's shaking all over, actually. his trembling fingers can barely turn the key to lock his van.

he orders three donuts and a coffee at the counter and the cashier asks if he's feeling okay. he doesn't say anything. he takes the bag of donuts and scarfs them down on the way back to stadium, taking long swigs of the coffee between bites. none of it tastes good, which sucks, because usually dunkin is pretty fresh. fuck philadelphia.

at the stadium they ask him to set up one of the props that will be dismantled again tonight during the show in spectacular fashion, but he's so out of it he forgets how to put it together even though he's done it a thousand times. he blames it on the nightmares, and maybe also on the donuts, which by this point he figures must have been laced with  _ rat poison _ because he's still got their awful taste stuck to his tongue and can feel them sitting heavy as a rock in the pit of his stomach. he's waving someone else over to help him out when he doubles over suddenly with a cramp in his abdomen and a rising of bile at the back of his throat that has him hurtling toward the bathroom so he doesn't puke all over metallica's set.

crouched over the toilet, he retches and coughs up his barely-digested breakfast in one gooey mass of coffee and chocolate and stomach acid. a second wave of nausea brings up the rest of the coffee, spilling freely from his lips into the toilet bowl. stumbling back, shuddering and sweating, he covers his mouth with one hand and stares in shock at the sight of his breakfast come back to haunt him. a hand to his forehead proves he doesn't have a fever; in fact, his skin feels colder than usual, clammy and wet. he wonders if he should go back to the dunkin and claim food poisoning but one of the guys knocks on the bathroom door calling for more help and he shakily obliges. so much for eating before work.

he helps out as best he can but when the show starts the tour manager comes over and tells him to take the rest of the night off so he doesn't fuck anything up. normally he'd be pissed, but he's really starting to think there's something  _ seriously  _ wrong with him. he's  _ cold _ , for one, goosepimpled and shivering, but he can't stop  _ sweating _ . his throat is dry and sore and his stomach feels hollow and achy but it keeps growling hungrily as if it didn’t just reject the meal he gave it. there's a muffled pounding in his ears that he thinks is his own heartbeat and if the erratic rate at which it's going is any indication, he  _ may  _ be having a heart attack. 

he starts to leave the stadium through a side door but as he passes the pit, the thumping in his head gets louder, more  _ intense _ , and suddenly he realizes it's not  _ him _ , it's  _ them _ . he can hear the heart of every person in the crowd beating louder and stronger than the bass or drums, louder than the music they came to see. the sound somehow  _ invigorates _ him and instead of heading for the van he makes his way into the pit, slipping in among the writhing bodies and  _ losing himself. _

in the sea of hot-blooded people he can forget how cold he is, how sick he feels. even his shakes start to disappear as he jumps and screams and dances along with the crowd. he's not even listening to the music; the pounding of all the hearts around him is music enough, a cacophonous medley of pulsing blood coming from all around him. it invades his ears, his brain, his chest, his  _ stomach _ \-- filling him in a way the rock music he's been addicted to his whole life never could.

one beat begins to stand out in particular, its rhythm rising above the others and luring him deeper into the crowd to search for its source. he finds it in a guy screaming at the top of his lungs with his fists in the air, his entire being radiating energy and life. he's taller than trip but just as slender, smelling of leather and cigarettes and sweat. trip squeezes in next to him and then it's body on body, hips rolling against hips in time to the rhythm that pounds in trip's head and in the man's chest, and soon trip finds himself pressing his ear to the center of his ribcage as they move against each other, letting the sound consume him.

they're scrabbling at each other's clothes before they even leave the pit and they slip out before the encore, going back to trip's van for a little privacy. the guy's laughing with exhilaration as he falls back against the mattress laid out in the back and reaches for trip, pulls him down by the collar of his jacket, lets him settle on his hipbones. 

trip winces as the man’s fingers brush the bandage on his throat, sending a tremor down his already shivering spine. he doesn’t know what’s wrong with himself. he’s got a massive headache and for some reason his  _ teeth _ hurt like he’s twelve again and getting his braces tightened for the first time. it's so cold here, away from the crowd, but the body of the man beneath him is radiating heat and he presses down into him, skimming nose against sternum, lips against the skin showing at the dip of his v-neck. 

the man's hands crawl up his shirt, press against the slick cold skin of his empty stomach, feel it growl against them. a soft mumble escapes him between giggles as trip mouths at his collarbones, tipped with concern.

"are you okay?"

trip can't focus, not with the guy's heart beating like that. it's so loud -- why is it so  _ loud? _ \-- and it's all he can hear or feel or think about. it feels like everything's moving in slow motion, like he's falling unconscious between each beat. there's a throbbing  _ warmth _ at his core that trip somehow  _ lacks _ , and he presses his face into his ribs as if he could sink right through and  _ drown _ himself in it.   
  
the man's lungs shake with a nervous laugh, and his hands move to trip's back beneath his shirt, running over the bare ridges of his shuddering spine.   
  
"are you sure you want to --"   
  
trip looks up at the same moment. scans the man's face, lips, throat. the pumping in his chest has become so loud he thinks he can hear the actual fluid sound of blood rushing through his heart's valves. and instead of that freaking him out, it makes him feel  _ hungry _ .   
  
the guy keeps looking up at him expectantly like he's about to give some sort of eloquent response, but all trip manages to choke out is:   
  
"-- i'm so fucking  _ cold _ ."

filled with sudden desire, trip takes control. it's him who presses him down and assaults his mouth with sloppy, thirsty kisses, him who rakes his tongue over his quivering adam's apple. 

him who  _ tears his throat out with his teeth. _

it happens so fast there's hardly time for the man to react. one second he's moaning in ecstasy and the next he's gurgling through torn vocal cords. trip doesn't know what's happening, doesn't  _ realize _ what he's doing. but he doesn't stop. 

blood gushes into his mouth, hot and wet, as his newly elongated canines sink into the gaping wound, and he swallows it like it's fucking  _ mother's milk _ , like it's the best beer he's ever tasted and he's ready to get  _ trashed _ . heat splashes in his stomach and spreads throughout his body, warming, strengthening,  _ healing _ , stilling his shakes and drying his sweat and filling him with stolen energy. it's like he's been listening to his favorite song all night and the dancing, the kissing was all part of the build up but this is the  _ climax, _ the thing he's been waiting for the whole time, and he doesn’t ever want it to end. he drinks ravenously, biting again each time he loses his rhythm, sucking so hard his lips bruise. the man barely struggles, frozen in shock and too weak to move his muscles beneath by trip's increasingly heavy weight. 

his frenzy only fades once that intoxicating heartbeat has stuttered to a halt inside his victim's chest.

the van feels strangely empty without the sound, but at least trip's not  _ cold  _ anymore. he can feel the heat of the man's blood spreading through his own veins, hear the faint echo of his heartbeat pounding inside his own chest. he sits up and pants and shudders, trying to catch his breath through a blood-clogged throat. he feels invigorated.  _ alive  _ again. not like the  _ zombie _ he woke up as. he looks down at the body beneath him, dazed and dizzy, and the gory mess that was once a living breathing human being slowly swims into view.

...what the  _ fuck  _ did he just do?

realization hits him like a freight train and suddenly trip feels like he's  _ falling _ , like someone flipped his van on its back with him still inside. immediately he gags on the blood in his throat, scrambles backwards and slams his spine into the wall behind him. still coughing and sputtering, he stares with wide eyes at the body of the boy he'd dragged back to his van to kiss and  _ eaten _ instead.

"f-fuck -- what the  _ fuck _ \--"

there’s a _dead guy_ in the back of his van, and _he_ _killed him._

his mind is running a million miles a second. there’s no way this could happen. there’s no way he’d do something like that. it all feels like a bad trip, something he might awaken from at any second. he wishes he would. he digs his fingernails into his scalp, bangs his skull against the wall, tries to  _ wake himself up _ \-- but he can't deny the  _ reality _ of the iron tang of someone else's blood on his tongue.

bile rises in his throat again. struggling breaths turn into retches as he panics, fraught with overwhelming guilt. his stomach is full of blood he stole from the person he  _ murdered _ and he wants it  _ out _ . when nothing comes up he fumbles for the latch of the back door and swings it open so he can hang his head over the pavement below, gripping the edge of the van with one hand and shoving the pointer finger of the other down his throat to induce a purge. his back arches and blood paints the asphalt scarlet. the sight of it only prompts trip to vomit more and more until his throat runs dry. 

feeling weak and hollow again, he slumps back into the van and curls his knees to his chest. he's shaking all over, cold sweat and warm blood dripping down his face, mingling with the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. he's struggling to accept what he's done, what he must  _ be. _

one hand gropes for the bandage on his neck, crumples it in his grip. his trembling fingers find the dips of two fang holes in his throat and as he looks from the mutilated body in the back of his van to the bloody pavement outside, he puts it all together.

  
he's a fucking  _ vampire. _

**Author's Note:**

> anyone think the vampire who bit him sounds a bit familiar?? take a guess...


End file.
